


it gets hard to remember (we're best when we're tender)

by Dawn_Blossom



Series: Chrom/Grima in Askr [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Grima POV, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Sickfic, disclaimer: uhhh yeah i'm NOT a medical professional and you can tell, emphasis on the comfort, it's like a 1 day fever okay everybody's fine, spoon feeding, spoon feeding so nice i made them do it twice, yes they kiss even though Grima's sick what kind of fic do you think i'm writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 15:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15608901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn_Blossom/pseuds/Dawn_Blossom
Summary: Grima gets sick. Chrom helps.





	it gets hard to remember (we're best when we're tender)

**Author's Note:**

> Listen... Sickfic is a BIG weakness of mine, okay... But only fluffy sickfic. Little h Big C in hurt/Comfort.
> 
> This was only going to be like ~1500 words, only I forgot that I love writing Grima, so it's a little longer. Probably not even close to medically accurate, but if you notice anything super wrong you can just imagine that Askr viruses are different. 
> 
> On a related note... Can you imagine the medical nightmare that's going on in Heroes? Are diseases that haven't been seen in 1000 years popping up in Ylisse because someone caught something from a hero from Marth's time??? Are heroes coming into contact with diseases that don't exist in their world and becoming horribly ill because they don't have any resistance to them??? Do they even know about vaccines??? This is getting too scary for me, so I'm going to shut up about it.
> 
> The song title comes from [Luv (sic) by The Tragically Hip ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7v2I0MJsZ8) and honestly I just googled songs that had "lovesick" in the lyrics, but... This song gives me legit Grima vibes, so yeah... It's one for the playlist, alright.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the fic. It's kind of, um, what you'd call _self-indulgent,_ so... ^^;;;;;

Dragons do not get sick from human illnesses. This is a fact; their bodies are too different from humans to fall victim to the same pathogens that affect the weaker species.

Of course, this new vessel of his is different. Save for the tiniest bit of fell blood that allowed him to reincarnate, the blood in these veins is entirely human.

It simply had not occurred to him that this would render him vulnerable to human maladies. Had he thought of it, he would have taken care to avoid human contact here in Askr. He cannot even say who did this to him. There are too many suspects. It could have been Genny,.the little healer who _normally_ would have stayed at a distance in battle but was recently forced to shelter close to him when she got surrounded. Or perhaps it was Shigure, the singer from another land whom Grima had only stopped to listen to because he had thought for a moment that the voice reminded him of something (though alas, no memories returned to him after all). It might even have been the Summoner themself, what with Kiran’s insistence on constantly checking on everyone. Grima had seen all of these people walking around with coughs.

But to think that _he_ would sicken like them… It’s ridiculous, and yet here he is, ill beyond anything that could be excused by mere fatigue.

He does not know what he’s supposed to do. Going to a healer would be the obvious choice, except… He cannot allow the other heroes to see him like this. They are already beginning to respect him less and less every day… and if they can forget to fear a god, what would they think after seeing him this way? He is a but a freezing, shivering wretch...

He covers himself with a blanket, but the fabric offers him no comfort. He has a headache, which is not actually unusual, but his muscles ache as well. He is not sure he could walk to a healer if he wanted to.

… Yes, it is best if he just lies here. Genny, Shigure, and Kiran had all spent a day in their rooms only to come out in full health, so surely he will be fine following their example.

He will be fine… Illness is just another hardship in a universe that cares nothing for its inhabitants. Despair is Grima’s domain, and he can deal with it.

He rests his head on his pillow, allowing his body to spasm as it pleases. If shivering truly increases warmth, he certainly can’t tell… But it is not so bad; he has been much colder. There is warmth and light in Askr. He has not always known the sun. Sealed away, trapped beneath the earth for years and years and years and…

He does not want to remember this. Of all the memories he could have retained, why must it be the ones from so long ago? It was always dark and cold. It was the humans’ fault; they blamed Forneus for their problems… Forneus blamed Grima… and Grima… couldn’t stand it… How could any creature stand it? Blood was the only thing warm down there… He is a dragon; he needs the warmth…

His eyelids grow heavy, and he knows he must give into sleep, no matter how dark it is. He will survive if he sleeps. He will see the world someday…

But his slumber is fitful. Figures fill his head; he forgets where he is. Askr or Thabes, humans are the same. But they cannot rid the world of him… Nothing can rid the world of him… For he is…

“Grima!” a voice calls to him. For an instant, he sees a glowing blade aimed at his heart, and he rears back…

Only for his eyes to fly open. He is in his bed and nowhere else. There is a human with him, but that’s fine; he trusts Chrom.

Oh. Chrom.

Grima does not bother to lock his door; nobody would dare enter his room. Save Chrom, who is welcome.

Well… he is usually welcome. But he shouldn’t be seeing Grima like this. 

“Get out,” he growls. The vibration of his throat irritates him and forces him to cough.

“You’ve been overworking yourself…” Chrom murmurs. He does not move.

Overwork? Ridiculous. There is no such thing. He merely puts in every effort… There is no point in giving less. He was summoned for his strength, not his personality.

“It is not my fault,” Grima snaps. Though he no longer feels frozen, his headache is worse than ever. He shifts into an upright position, and his arms feel as though they might give out from the attempt alone. It infuriates him. “Worthless humans... who can’t even fight… Spewed their filth on me…”

“And your exhausted body didn’t have the strength to keep the illness at bay,” Chrom says, frowning in disapproval. 

Grima wants to scratch the expression off his face, wants to force Chrom to stop looking at him like a lowly thing. But he doesn’t have the strength. His head throbs, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from making a noise that no being is allowed to hear. A sense of hopelessness surges within him. Chrom is the only one who respects him in this castle, but he surely will not after witnessing this. And by the time Grima recovers, it will be too late. Chrom’s regard will be lost, and Grima will never get it back, because he’s not entirely sure how he’s kept it for this long.

His head slams hard against the bed as he collapses back on it. His head pulses with pain, and he can’t bite back a groan of frustration.

“Oh, gods…” Chrom’s voice drops to a whisper. “How long have you been like this?”

Like this? Like what, like himself? He’s been like this from the moment of his… birth, if you could call it that. The same could be said of any being, couldn’t it? He woke from nothingness as the fell dragon. He did not get to choose his destiny. No one gets to choose, no matter what humans tell themselves to sleep at night. You must bear the life you are given, even if it is miserable. Even if it is not exactly what you want. Arrogant humans… They are never satisfied with less than their ideals, no matter how impossible those ideals are… 

“When was the last time you ate anything?” Chrom asks, his face coming closer. “Or drank anything? Grima, please…”

“What?” Grima tries to think, truly, but he simply does not know the answer. He does not even know how long Chrom has been standing here. “I… don’t know…”

“I’m going to get Lissa,” Chrom says abruptly. 

Panic grips Grima, and before Chrom can move away, Grima grabs him by the arm.

It is not that Grima is strong right now, he knows… But perhaps his touch has some sway, just as Chrom’s touch can sway him… Yes, even now, the feeling of Chrom’s skin against his is soothing…

“Do not tell anyone,” Grima demands. “Only you… Only you can be here.”

It’s too late to keep this from Chrom, but the last thing he wants is for _other_ people to come…

“But you’re suffering,” Chrom says. “I… I don’t know what to _do!_ ”

For reasons unfathomable to Grima, Chrom grimaces like _he’s_ the one in pain.

A hand brushes against Grima’s forehead. 

“I know… I’ll bring you something,” Chrom says. “Water, and a meal… Just wait for a moment.”

He removes his hand. Something deep inside Grima screams for its return. This body craves Chrom’s touch more than it’s ever craved food or water.

Nevertheless, he keeps his arms limp at his sides as Chrom steps out. He has already told Chrom too much of his desperation in the past; he cannot afford to stoop lower now.

And truly, there is no excuse for this. He is feeling better than he was before. He is not too cold, and his fire-hot skin is not difficult to bear. He is only tired. And… Chrom mentioned water, didn’t he? His throat is dry, which does not help his cough… He could use water. Is Chrom bringing him water? How long has he been gone? Did Chrom actually say that, or was Grima dreaming?

Did Grima dream Chrom?

Is Grima dreaming even now? Is all of Askr a dream? What if he’s still deep underground, never to be unsealed, never to wake up, never to see the sun…?

He could not dream up the warmth of the sun, surely?

Agitation hums beneath his skin, and Grima can not stay lying down. He shifts around onto his stomach, then rises to balance on his knees. This is how Chrom finds him when he enters with a tray bearing water and soup.

Chrom sits beside Grima, placing the tray between them. But the liquids are not what Grima is focused on. He _has_ to touch Chrom again, for pitiful as it is, there is terror in his heart. This cannot be a dream, because in a dream, he would not need a human so. And Chrom would not look at him gently in response, because Grima does not dream of gentleness. 

Yes, if there is good in the world, it must be real, because his soul does not know enough of goodness to imagine it.

With one hand, Chrom strokes Grima’s fingers gently. With the other, he raises the cup of water.

Grima does not want to drink. He is thirsty, but the cold liquid will only hurt him, he is sure. His gaze falls on the soup. He does not feel hungry, but the warmth is inviting… 

Chrom, getting the idea, swaps the cup in his hands for the bowl.

“Walhart caused a stir this morning, so it’s vegetable stew,” Chrom says. “Everyone was trying to placate him.”

Grima takes the bowl carefully, glad that at least he is not trembling. There is a spoon in the bowl, but Grima has no desire to use it. There is no reason to funnel a liquid from one container to a smaller one solely for the sake of transporting it into the mouth… not when it is perfectly simple to drink from the bowl itself… And worse, the practice is not even constant among humans. What makes some humans adopt a custom when others do not? Do they simply follow what they have learned? Why do they continue even when there is a better way?

Perhaps they do not see other ways as better. Spoons are not necessary tools, but for what they are, they serve their function. Why would anyone stop doing things the way that they were taught, if it works? It is too much effort to change if you are not sure that anything will be better…

Grima blinks as something warm touches his lips. Without him realizing it, Chrom has moved closer to him. The spoon rests steadily in his fingers, and if Grima just opens his mouth a little… Yes, the metal slips in, and the soup hits is tongue. It is watery and displeasing, but it slides down his throat easily.

“How is it?” Chrom asks. “Can you handle more?”

Grima thinks he could, but…

“Why…?” He asks quietly. “Why are you…? I do not require… I did not ask…”

“I cannot sit by and watch you suffer while there is something I can do to help,” Chrom says. He is firm in his resolve, but nevertheless there is uncertainty in his next words. “Am I being helpful at all?”

Foolish man. Chrom is always trying to be useful to others, taking on burdens that no one would ever ask him to in the process...

“Yes,” Grima hisses, closing his eyes in equal parts shame and pleasure. He longs for Chrom’s presence, not just now but constantly. A mere word, a mere touch, a mere glance… They all help Grima. Any time. All the time. Grima is helplessly under his power. Chrom must know that, surely.

The spoon presses against his lips again. Grima allows its entry.

“It would be good if you could stomach all of this,” Chrom murmurs. The spoon clinks against the bowl as it is refilled. “But… tell me if I should stop.”

Grima receives another spoonful of the soup, this one containing some sort of legume. He chews it halfheartedly before swallowing. But no matter how dull the taste is, no matter how little he desires to eat, he will not tell Chrom to stop. He relishes every offering. Chrom is not his follower, yet his action feels more devout than anything his actual worshippers have ever done for him.

Of course, he knew his worshippers never truly cared for him. They wanted his power to achieve their own ends. If he could not provide the power, or if they could not achieve their ends, or if those ends were not as desirable as they assumed, they had no qualms about turning on him in an instant.

He is sure that Chrom would never turn on an ally… But in most worlds, Chrom is not his ally. It is always Chrom or Grima, never them together. The second he ceases to be the amnesiac tactician, everything is over. He cannot be his true self and be with Chrom at the same time… Except here, in this world called Zenith, in this kingdom called Askr. What makes it special? Is anything truly different here? If fate did bring him and Chrom together here, what is to say that it won’t tear them apart? There is a reason, isn’t there, that something always goes wrong in their home worlds?

It is probably only a matter of time before Chrom devotes his attention to someone else. Sooner or later, another amnesiac Robin will be summoned; sooner or later, the summoned Robin will be in love with Chrom. And it will be over for Grima.

Yes, Grima is all too aware that he is just a poor substitute. But it is so unfair. Those Robins are no more innocent than he; they have merely forgotten their sins.He is the only one who is true! Why should they be preferred? He is no worse than them!

A cool hand against his cheek pulls him out of his thoughts. Startled, his eyes fly open. 

“That’s all there is.” Chrom is right there; the tray between them has been moved away. “Do you want more?”

More? Yes, more; he _needs_ more!

There is not much distance to close, and he perhaps uses too much force, because Chrom is knocked backwards when Grima crushes their lips together. The kiss ends too quickly, though; he has not the breath to sustain it for long. 

Gods, if only he had more strength. 

Chrom moves his hands into Grima’s hair. His fingers are cool where they brush against his scalp. Dully, he recognizes this as him being… pet. Some part of him wonders if he should protest, suspects that this is not acceptable for a being such as him… But all he can think about as he closes his eyes again is an image of the children Kana in their dragon forms, their scales being carefully caressed by the human hands of their parents. 

Grima has never allowed a human to touch the scales of his dragon form. Would it feel nice, like this does?

“I take it you’d rather I stay here, then...” Chrom murmurs.

Grima buries his head into Chrom’s neck.

“Do you want to stay here?” he mumbles. He does not want Chrom to stay out of principle, and he certainly does not want him to stay out of pity. Chrom being here is meaningless if he doesn’t want to be here. 

“I won’t be any good anywhere else,” Chrom says, trailing a hand down to rest against Grima’s back. “I’m terribly worried about you. I don’t think you understand how out of it you are.”

“Is my response not normal for humans?” Grima asks, his voice still muffled by Chrom’s skin.

“It is…” Chrom admits. “But so is mine.”

Chrom’s grip on him tightens.

“You should sleep,” Chrom says.

“I… can’t do anything else.” Grima does not think Chrom would allow him to move now if he tried. A brief chuckle escapes his throat; this trap is of his own making and not at all unpleasant. 

“Better you don’t try,” Chrom says, a trace of humor in his smile.

“Better keep your eyes on me, then,” Grima says. His words take the form of a threat, but they are not one. He means that it is better for him, not for Chrom.

“Better you close yours,” Chrom insists with a gentle firmness.

It is okay, because Grima would not have disobeyed.

He falls into a sleep more tranquil than his earlier slumber. If he dreams, the action does not disturb him to wakefulness. When he does eventually wake, it is to the chill of a dampened cloth being pressed against his forehead.

… And it is immediately clear why the cloth is necessary. He is _hot._ His skin glistens with the sheen of sweat, as though his body had undergone a heavy battle while he was unconscious. 

The second he sits up, Chrom is pressing a cup of water into his hand. He does not delight in the feeling of the room-temperature liquid passing down his still-irritated throat, but he is not a fool and knows that his body must replace the water it has shed.

He still grimaces at the sensation.

Chrom’s expression mirrors his own.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” he says. “I didn’t want to disturb you, but when you started to sweat, well…” He tugs uncomfortably at the sleeve of his shirt (which is looking rather damp… Grima assumes that his body did not keep its perspiration to itself). “Gods, I’m not a healer. Are you okay?”

Grima pauses, considering. He is terribly flushed and sweaty, and he still feels too weak to do much but sit around. But he is… in control, at least. He can think clearly and act rationally, not like before when he…

His eyes widen.

“Why did you let me kiss you?” he growls. “You’re going to fall ill as well.”

Chrom’s cheeks tinge, though the pink on his skin pales in comparison to Grima’s sickness-induced flush.

“Maybe it was worth it,” Chrom says defiantly.

For a moment, they stand there in silence, gazes locked.

Grima, always the more impatient of them, scowls first

“Well, was it?” he demands.

Chrom’s eyes could burn a hole in him.

“Yes,” Chrom says. “You’re worth anything.”

Ha… Such trite words of human passion can hold little meaning..

But Chrom can make anything sound sincere. He is too earnest to lie and too honorable to knowingly deceive. It is idiocy, then, that makes him spout statements so vague that they cannot hold up. “Anything” is too broad; he is not thinking of the myriad of horrible things Grima could (and did, in other worlds) do to him. There is no such thing as unconditional love, no matter what romantic nonsense humans spout to each other.

Chrom is not worth “anything,” but it would take pure betrayal to get Grima to stop trying to fulfill the conditions of his devotion.

Chrom moves forward, and Grima does not reject the offered kiss. Reason dictates that Chrom will not be harmed more by further exposure, and Grima cannot resist the draw of pleasure regardless.

After a moment, Grima pulls back, dropping back down to sit on his bed. It is unfortunate that his illness has rendered him so weak, or perhaps it is unfortunate that such a brief gesture can stimulate such intense excitement, but either way he has to catch his breath again.

“This is rather distasteful, isn’t it?” Grima mutters, huffing in cynical amusement. His skin is clammy, he has not undergone any grooming today, and he is not under any delusions of his current attractiveness. “This time you brought it on yourself, though.”

“... Sorry,” Chrom says with a sheepish grin. “You’re sick, so I shouldn’t… But…”

He sits down beside Grima and presses another brief kiss to his lips.

Grima gives him a wry smile.

“It’s just that you say things,” Chrom says. “You say things that make me want to kiss all the thoughts out of your head.”

Grima coughs out a laugh.

“Are you saying that you kiss me to shut me up?” he asks.

“What?” Chrom asks. “Wait, no! I didn’t mean it like that!”

Grima believes him, although he’s not sure what exactly Chrom _did_ mean. 

“It’s precious how poorly you speak,” Grima says. Fondness surges inside him. He much prefers Chrom’s manner of speaking to the flawless, rote speech of silver-tongued tricksters.

Before he can speak again, he is distracted by a growling sound. It does not issue from his throat, but rather from his stomach.

It occurs to him that it must be late. Outside his window, night has fully set in.

Chrom chuckles.

“I have more soup for you,” he says, gesturing to a bowl sitting on Grima’s desk. “Kept warm with a curse of some sort? I am too untalented with magic to understand the details.”

Of course. Curses can do anything, if your wishes and your magic are both powerful enough. He would not mind teaching Chrom magical theory, if only the man had any interest in it. But he does not, and so Grima will not waste his breath trying to explain the difference between types of magic. 

“Your forethought is appreciated,” Grima says.

Unfortunately, the soup is no more appealing to his palate than it was when he was delirious. There are ways to cook vegetables to make them _almost_ pleasant… But clearly whoever was on cooking duty today does not know of them.

“Should I feed you again?” Chrom asks. It is stated in jest, obviously. Now that Grima is not half-absent mentally, whatever spark in Chrom compels him to try to aid him will not light.

Nevertheless, the idea gives him pause. Chrom must read something in his expression, because he tilts his head.

“Really?” he asks. “In truth, I expected you to mock me for asking.”

Grima glances away. It is a tradition of human romance for partners to feed each other, isn’t it? But while Grima is prone to mocking human romance, it is only because it is so false, so performative. A lie offered in the name of social convention.

It’s not as though he’s asking Chrom to feed him _lies_ along with food.

“I am a god,” Grima says. “I take no issue with service.”

“Grima…” Chrom’s voice is hesitant, like he’s about to protest that he can’t possibly serve the fell dragon.

Well, of course he can’t.

“Don’t blame me for stating it,” Grima says. “It’s your fault for suggesting…”

Chrom stands up.

“You think I won’t do it?” he asks, a challenging gleam in his eye.

Grima holds his gaze as he approaches.

“Tell me, Grima,” Chrom says, taking the bowl for himself. “What compels a god to seek worshippers? What do they give you in exchange for your power?”

Grima closes his eyes. There is no good answer. Humans give him arrogance and ingratitude. But he could avoid it entirely, avoid fickle humans entirely, if he truly tried. For all he despises the humans’ inability to learn from their mistakes, he does not act much better himself. It does not make humanity any less reprehensible, but… It does make him a fool. Chrom knows. Perhaps everyone knows, and that is why he is not feared in Askr.

“You can’t trade power for love,” Chrom says, trailing a hand down Grima’s cheek. “But you don’t need to. You have me, after all.”

Grima cannot verbally reply, because a spoonful of bland soup blocks his tongue. But he opens his eyes, knowing they will convey something. Chrom is too good at reading his eyes; he does not even need a blood bond to understand Grima’s intentions, and so he must understand. Grima’s body hungers for the food, but his soul is utterly starving for something intangible, something only Chrom has ever actually provided.

“Stay with me,” he demands as soon as he can form words. “Tonight.”

He means something more than that, but he cannot say it. If he speaks of “forever,” Chrom will unthinkingly promise it, and Grima will make a liar of an honest man.

“Alright,” Chrom says. He raises the spoon back up in offering.

Closing his eyes again, Grima takes his fill.


End file.
